The Sword of Attila (2 page)

Thorismud –
Son of King Theodoric of the Visigoths

Thrastilla –
Hun bodyguard of Erecan, along with Optila

Uago –
Fictional senior
fabri
tribune in Rome

Valamer –
Ostrogoth commander under Attila

Valentinian –
Roman emperor in the West

When a certain cowherd beheld one heifer of his flock limping and could find no cause for this wound, he anxiously followed the trail of blood and at length came to a sword it had unwittingly trampled while nibbling the grass. He dug it up and took it straight to Attila. He rejoiced at this gift and, being ambitious, thought he had been appointed ruler of the whole world, and that through the Sword of Mars supremacy in all wars was assured to him.

J
ORDANES

(
c
.
AD
550), XXXV, 83, quoting the fifth-century historian Priscus, an eyewitness to the court of Attila

They are lightly equipped for swift motion, and unexpected in action; they purposely divide suddenly into scattered bands and attack, rushing about in disorder here and there, dealing terrific slaughter … you would not hesitate to call them the most terrible of all warriors, because they fight from a distance with missiles … then they gallop over the intervening spaces and fight hand-to-hand with swords, regardless of their own lives, and while the enemy are guarding against wounds from the sword-thrusts, they throw strips of cloth plaited into nooses over their opponents and so entangle them that they fetter their limbs.

A
MMIANUS
M
ARCELLINUS

(
c
.
AD
380), XXXI, 2, 8–9, on the Huns

The Great Hungarian Plain,
AD
396

The two Roman prisoners lurched forward, their chains dragging through the wet snow on the slope leading up to the meadow. A harsh wind whipped across the plateau that surrounded the ravine, bringing a sharp bite of winter to those gathered for the ceremony. High above them eagles soared, flown free from the wrists of their masters, waiting for the flesh and gore that would be left for them when the ceremony was over. Around the edge of the meadow great bronze cauldrons sizzled over open fires, the steam from their contents rising to form a thin mist over the people. The rich aroma of cooking meat, of beef and mutton and venison, wafted down the ravine over the circular tents of the encampment, past the spring where the holy water began its journey to the great river two days' ride to the west, at the place where the land of the hunters ended and the empire of Rome began.

The younger of the two prisoners stumbled forward and leaned against the other man, who shouldered him upright and spoke harsh words of command in a language unknown to most of those watching. They wore the ragged remains of what had once been Roman
milites
tunics, stained brown with rust where the chainmail had been, their feet unshod and bloody from days of marching shackled to each other. The older man, grizzled, gaunt, his white stubble broken by long-healed scars on his cheeks and chin, bore weals on his forearm where long ago he had cut the mark of his unit, ‘LEGII'. He stared defiantly ahead as his captors pushed him forward; it was the look of a soldier who had stared death in the face too often to be afraid of what he knew must lie ahead of them now.

A horn sounded, shrill and strident, setting off the eagles far above, their raucous cries echoing up and down the ravine. A wagon lumbered into view pulled by two bullocks and surrounded by horsemen, their lances held upright and their bows slung over their backs. They wore leather trousers and tunics, the fur turned inwards against the cold, and they sat on saddles cushioned by slabs of raw meat that oozed and trickled blood down the horses' flanks; the meat protected the animals from saddle sores and provided tenderized food for the men on the long hunt into the steppe-land that would follow the ceremony. The horsemen also wore gleaming conical helmets over wide-rimmed hats of fur with earflaps that could be tied down against the bitter wind of the plateau; over their tunics lay elaborate armour made from small rectangular plates sewn together, acquired by exchanging rare pelts with traders from far-off Serikon, the land the Romans called Thina. From those traders too came the silk that the women in the gathering had wound around their heads, and also the fiery magic that the archers would launch into the sky to signal the end of the ceremony and the beginning of the great feast that would follow far into the night.

The lead rider cantered past the cauldrons through the throng of people, coming to a halt in front of a towering brushwood pyre, not yet lit, that rose to twice his height in the centre of the meadow. He pulled on his reins, the embossed gold leaf on the leather flashing as he did so, and turned around to face the approaching wagon, leaning forward and whispering to his horse as it whinnied and stomped, calming it. When the wagon had stopped he thrust his lance into the ground and took off his helmet, holding it by his side and staring impassively. His forehead was high and sloped from where he had been bound as an infant; his dark hair was tied tightly on top of his head, his long ponytail now falling loose where it had previously been coiled under the conical peak of his helmet. His skin was deeply weathered, and he had the narrow eyes and flat nose that were characteristic of his people; wisps of beard fell from the corners of his mouth. A livid scar ran diagonally across each cheek from temple to chin, long healed but mottled and purple in the frigid air.

He drew himself up on his saddle, his hands on his hips. ‘I am Mundiuk, your king,' he said. His voice was harsh, grating, like the cries of the eagles, the words ending in the hard consonants of a language meant to be heard and understood above the howling of the wind. He pointed at the cart. ‘And today, if the signs are right, you will see your future king.'

He reined his horse aside, and the boys who were leading the bullocks coaxed them forward until the cart was within the circle of people. It had high wooden sides, its interior concealed from view. As the boys unhitched the bullocks and led them away, four men approached from behind; two held burning torches, another, the firewalker, was dressed in protective leather and carried a heavy bucket, and behind him came the shuffling figure of the shaman, his eyes white and unseeing, dragging the sun-bleached scapula bone of a bull. The firewalker went up to the pyre and tipped from the bucket a load of the heavy black tar that bubbled up from the ground in the ravine, walking around the bundles of brushwood until the bucket was empty and then returning to stand beside the shaman.

Behind them came Mundiuk's personal guard: Alans, Saxons, Angles, renegades from the West, men who would be loyal to the highest bidder, whose fealty he had bought with the gold he had received from the emperor in Constantinople in payment for staying east of the great river. Employing mercenaries was something he had learned from the kings of the Goths, rulers he had courted before crushing them. Once he had become more than a chieftain, once he had become a king, he had learned to trust no one, not even his own brothers. The horsemen of the great plain, his Hun warriors, were the best fighters who had ever lived, but each one of them was a king in the making, used to ruling all that he could see across the steppe-lands stretching to the horizon. And mercenaries would fight to the death, not because of loyalty but because they knew that for a mercenary, surrendering meant certain execution.

The boys who had led the bullocks away had returned and now stood on either side of the cart. Mundiuk nodded, and they unlatched the wooden sides, letting them fall down. Inside, two women crouched in front of another lying on her back in the last stages of labour – Mundiuk's queen. Her face was covered by a veil and she made no sound, but the veil sucked in and out with her breathing and her hands were clenched and white. The other women in the gathering began ululating, swaying to and fro, and the men began to sing in a deep-throated chant, rising in a slow crescendo. There was a movement on the cart, and then one of the women suddenly knelt up and stared at Mundiuk, pointing at the pyre. He put on his helmet and cantered his horse backwards.
It was time.

He took a burning torch from one of the men and reined his horse around towards the pyre. In one swift movement he swung it over his head and released it, watching it crash and disintegrate in a shower of sparks. At first nothing seemed to happen, as if the pyre had absorbed the flame, but then an orange glow suffused the centre and lines of flame licked out along the splashes of tar, racing around the edge in a ring of fire. The flames leapt up the brushwood and reduced it in seconds to a smouldering mound, revealing an astonishing sight. In the centre, as though it had risen in the clutches of a god, was a gleaming sword, its long blade pointing up to the heavens, its gold-wrapped pommel held on a scorched stone pedestal carved in the shape of a human hand. It was the sacred sword of the Hun kings, brought here by the shaman for the ceremony of renewal, ready to be spirited away again and to await rediscovery just as it had done a generation before when Mundiuk himself had been the future king.

Mundiuk reined his horse around again, the gold trappings resplendent in the reflected flames. The women were still huddled down over the recumbent form in the cart, but in front of it one of the boys who had been standing on either side had stepped forward. By tradition, the task ahead would go to this boy, Bleda, the king's eldest son, whose birth had not been accompanied by propitious signs, but who would be the sword-companion of the future king. Bleda stood uncertainly, his head still bound in coils of wool, his right eye drooping where Mundiuk's sword had slipped on the boy's tears while he was making the cuts on his cheeks borne by all Hun warriors. His arms and legs were swathed in damp cloths, and he looked fearfully at the fire. ‘Go,' one of the other boys urged. He began to run forward, yelling in the cracked voice of an adolescent, and then leapt into the embers, his yell turning to shrieks of pain as he scrambled through the flickering pile to the sword. He slipped, and then grabbed the hilt, wrenching it off the pedestal and turning back, stumbling out of the embers towards Mundiuk. He was gasping, his eyes streaming and his hands scorched, but he had done it. A woman hurried out and tossed a bucket of water over him, leaving him sizzling and steaming. He held the sword by the blade and lifted the pommel up to Mundiuk, who took it by the hilt, raised it high and then bellowed, the sound echoing up and down the ravine. It was the Hun battle cry, a cry that brought terror to all who heard it: a cry of death.

Mundiuk touched the freshly whetted blade, drawing blood from his finger, and stared at the two Romans.
One would live, and one would die.
It had been the way of the ceremony for as long as his bloodline had ruled on the great plain. Bleda knew that it was his right to choose. The older Roman scowled at the boy, straining at his chains. Bleda stared back, and then raised his arm, pointing. Mundiuk needed to test the man's mettle, just to be sure he was the right one. He took the club from his saddle that he used to dispatch game, cantered forward and swung it hard against the man's mouth, hearing the crack of broken bone. The man staggered back, but then came upright, his lower jaw shattered. He spat out a mouthful of blood and broken teeth, and glared defiantly at the king. ‘
Futuere,
barbarian,' he snarled.

Mundiuk stared back at him. He knew what that curse meant. But it was good. These were not like the snivelling eunuch emissaries from Constantinople who had been the only captives they could find for Bleda's birth ceremony, men who had made the mistake of travelling to Mundiuk without gold, who had begged for mercy in their high-pitched voices and who had soiled themselves in front of his queen. When he had seen them face death like that, as cowards, he had known that the signs would not be right, that the gods would not will Bleda to be the next king. But this time it was different. These two were soldiers. They had been captured three weeks before in a raid on a fort on the great river, the river the Romans called Danubius; they had fought like lions but had been lassoed and shackled in their own chains, those they had used to enslave others. Mundiuk's brothers Octr and Rau, who had led the raid, had taunted them about the legendary marching ability of the Romans, but still they had marched on. Mundiuk had seen the scars on the older man's arm, the mark of the legion. Only the toughest would do that to themselves. Octr and Rau had done well. His blood would bring Mundiuk's son into the souls and minds of the greatest enemy his people had ever faced. The other would serve the future king as a slave, and teach him all the tricks of their warriors, their swordsmanship and tactics – he would teach him how to fight like them and how to think like their generals.

He nodded, and the men who formed his bodyguard kicked the two prisoners forward onto their knees. The blood welled up in the older man's mouth, but still he stayed upright, staring ahead. He growled to the other in the language of the Romans, words that Mundiuk understood: ‘Remember our comrades, brother. Remember those who have gone before. They wait for us on the other side.'

The young soldier was shaking, his face ashen and his eyes bloodshot, the look of a youth who had begun to realize the unimaginable; he was not to know that he might be spared. In his shackled hands he held something, grasping it so tight that his knuckles had gone white. He raised his arms up towards the fire, working the object up between his fingers until it was visible, a crude wooden cross that looked as if he had made it himself. He held it silhouetted against the flames and began mouthing incantations, the words of the brown-robed priests who had once long ago made the journey to the people of the plain to show them the bleeding god of the cross, a god who seemed to them to be one of weakness and capitulation, a god whom they despised.